


Intricacies

by FinalSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Gen, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, Winglock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinalSolution/pseuds/FinalSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wasn't supposed to be privy to John's secret, but when you share a flat with the most observant man in England, you can't expect to hide something forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Discovery

The first time Sherlock found one of the feathers in the flat, he dismissed it. It was roughly three centimetres long and a pale cream colour, and Sherlock had plucked it up from the floor with deft fingers, just beneath the couch, and tossed it in the bin mindlessly. It wasn't completely unheard of for things to wander in through the window if John happened to leave it open, which he liked to do on occasion when the weather permitted.

The second time Sherlock found one of the feathers, it had been in the bathroom; he'd glanced down and noticed it while he was brushing his teeth, sitting inconspicuously by the waste bin. It was curious, but perhaps John had found it and went to dispose of it and had simply missed his target. Sherlock stooped, picked it up, gave it a brief once-over, then put it in the trash.

The third time Sherlock found one of the feathers... Well, he probably _shouldn't_ have. After all, John had a strict no-trespassing rule when it came to his bedroom and was very peculiar about his personal belongings, which would be normal, accounting for his military history, but that didn't necessarily mean Sherlock abided by those rules. At least when he went snooping through John's drawers, he had sense enough to not mess up the sock drawer and put everything back precisely where he had found it. That was more than he could say for when John did it.

He was ninety-nine percent sure that John had hidden his violin bow somewhere in here ("you can't just squawk at me with that bloody thing at three in the morning when you want to get my attention, Sherlock!"), and he felt completely justified in his intrusion. When he opened the closet, his eyes fell on a small littering of the oatmeal-colored feathers, some no bigger than the two previous ones he had found, and some closer to twelve centimetres long, and with more breadth.

Sherlock's eyes squinted and his nose crinkled as he leaned in to get a closer look, gently lifting one up between his thumb and index finger; he was surprised to find they felt much softer to the touch than he had expected them to.

In the midst of his concentration, he hadn't heard the door open and close, and most definitely had not heard John's heavy footsteps as he had come upstairs.

"What in _bloody hell_ are you doing in my room?" Ah, the sound of a decidedly irked flatmate.

Sherlock cut his eyes, but didn't move his body and simply replied, his tone curt, "Remember that discussion we had about flatmates needing to know the worst about each other?"

"Oh, don't even get me started about how misleading _that_ was. I'm pretty sure you forgot to list off 'fires handguns into the wall when bored or agitated,' 'nonchalantly and carelessly stores body bits in the fridge,' and an entire list of things that are infinitely more worse than 'oh, I get quiet for days and play the violin' - which, I would like to point out, you forgot to mention that you do at all bloody hours of the morning, sometimes very loudly and badly when you're having a temper."

Sherlock waited patiently for John to finish his tirade before finally turning around with a bit of a flourish, waving the single feather in the air, a smirk tugging at his mouth, giving him a devilish schoolboy look.

"And you forgot to mention molting as one of yours. I'd have expected better from you, _Doctor Watson_. Don't you know there are people allergic to these things?"


	2. Covert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several days had passed since the “failed experiment” comment (which Sherlock supposed had been, in John’s opinion, a bit not good), and the flat was ripe with a silent air of apprehension. John made small talk over breakfast, and would ask Sherlock if any new developments had sprung up (there hadn’t), but overall, he was being very … Distant. It was not something Sherlock associated with his blogger, and he couldn’t say he was fond of it. Expressive, vibrant, heartfelt John Watson was not built to be a _distant_ man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to kind of bridge between things. It will start to pick up from here, I swear.

That was the first time Sherlock had asked John about the feathers. In turn, John had called him a clot, and claimed that the feathers had come from a ridiculously hideous taxidermy owl that he had gotten from Harry. "I don't know what the hell she was thinking," he'd said. "Maybe it was supposed to go in my office, but as you so expertly pointed out, people could have reactions, so I wasn't about to put that awful thing anywhere near my patients."

Sherlock had just given the doctor a look as though he were being especially obtuse (which, arguably, he was, if he thought that story was even remotely believable to anyone with two brain cells to rub together), made a dismissive hum, and glided past John and out of the room, the feather he had picked up still in his hand.

Sherlock Holmes had never been a man to believe in fairy tales, and to him, religion fell squarely into that category. If he could not see it or measure it in some shape or tangible form, if he couldn't gather the _facts_ , he couldn't really bring himself to care. As a child, he was the snot that everyone hated because he would go around telling crestfallen children that Father Christmas wasn’t real and that no, a fairy most certainly did not put that coin under your pillow for your tooth. He was once reprimanded for telling a boy, “What makes you think it’s real?” when the boy said that he hoped to go to heaven when he passed on.

All that mattered to Sherlock, all that _existed_ to Sherlock, was the concrete, the here and now; he didn’t believe in filling his head with superstitious fantasies that so many people lived, breathed, and gave their lives for every day.

The fact he was honestly considering that John Watson was something not altogether human was – Well, unsettling, if he was honest with himself. He had made the remark as a half-joke, but he hadn’t been entirely oblivious to John’s defensive body language. He knew better than to believe the owl story, had noticed the rigid stance his flatmate had taken, the firm set of his mouth that couldn’t be realistically attributed to the fact Sherlock had been caught in his room. No, John’s normal reaction to that was to shout, which was usually coupled with throwing his hands about in a ludicrous manner and rolling his eyes. He should have, Sherlock thought, laughed at the joke. Dismissed it. 

Instead, he had been defensive. Curious.

The second time Sherlock brought up the feathers, John was sitting in his chair, minding his own business, brooding over the day’s paper with a slowly cooling cup of tea placed precariously next to him on the armrest. The flat was strangely quiet except for the occasional rustle of John flipping the periodical. Sherlock had spread himself out on the sofa, stretched limbs taking up the entire length, his long hands steepled beneath his chin. He lay in this way for some time, wondering how exactly to go about bringing up the subject again. 

In typical Sherlock fashion, he decided being blunt was the best approach.

“So what are you, a failed genetic experiment or are you honestly going to tell me you aren’t human?” His eyes remained closed, but his ears picked up the slight catch in John’s breathing.

“What the hell are you talking about, Sherlock?” Annoyance, but not defensive. Yet.

“Don’t you think if you’d received such a large and audacious package from Harry that I’d have noticed? _Me_ , John. Think over your answer carefully.”

The sound of shifting leather as John adjusted in his seat, mingled with a rustle of the paper again. Likely resting it on his lap. An exasperated sigh – signs of a man resigned to dealing with a petulant child’s nagging questions.

“Are you going on about the feathers again? I told you –“

“Those did not come from a dead creature, John. While I confess my knowledge of such things isn’t expansive, I _do_ know how to research. It’s a bit part of my job, you see.”

“Right,” came the reply under the doctor’s breath. “Like you researched star alignments.”

“Not that again. I solved it, nevermind how.”

“If we hadn’t been to the planetarium you’d have never gotten it.”

“Irrelevant, and you’re diverging from the current conversation. I won’t be deterred so easily.” Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced over to John to see him massaging the point between his eyes, which were squeezed shut.

“What do you want me to say, Sherlock?”

“The truth would be preferable.”

Sherlock watched wordlessly as John rose, letting his paper crumple to the floor, picked up his jacket and went for the door, mumbling something about having to do a bit of shopping. Sherlock did not see him for another two hours.

The third time Sherlock attempted to talk about it – well.

Several days had passed since the “failed experiment” comment (which Sherlock supposed had been, in John’s opinion, a bit not good), and the flat was ripe with a silent air of apprehension. John made small talk over breakfast, and would ask Sherlock if any new developments had sprung up (there hadn’t), but overall, he was being very … Distant. It was not something Sherlock associated with his blogger, and he couldn’t say he was fond of it. Expressive, vibrant, heartfelt John Watson was not built to be a _distant_ man.

Sherlock had missed John coming in that night. He supposed John had spoken to him, but he had found himself a bit absorbed in his thinking, so if he had, Sherlock had missed it. He vaguely registered the sound of John ascending the steps and the sound of his door, though it was only around one in the morning when the thought of _I wonder where John is_ finally occurred to him. He unwound himself from the folded position he had been frozen in for who knows how long – it must have been several hours, because his joints felt stiff and unwilling to budge when he urged them to move. Quietly, he made his way towards John’s room, grimacing with each creak of the boards. What exactly was it about a silent house that made things like that sound as loud as a gunshot explosion?

Unsurprisingly, he found the door closed when he reached it. Not bothering to knock, he tried to open the door, only to discover that it was locked. He couldn’t recall John locking his door before, except for when he was to be out of the flat for an extended period – like the medical conference in Dublin he had attended a few months ago. Not that a lock did much to dissuade Sherlock Holmes, and he did what any reasonable flatmate would do: he picked the lock.

“John?” 

A small voice told him to wait until the next day, that John would be livid at being woken up at this hour (never mind the fact Sherlock had stolen into his room like a thief in the night while he slept), but there was a nagging urgency that wouldn’t be put to rest. And so he stepped into the room, which was mostly dark, save for the small amount of moonlight flooding in through the window, casting dark shadows into the corners.

“John?” he tried again, his voice louder this time. There was a stir from the bed in response, a sleep-muddled groan, and the sound of sheets jostling.

The thing that was odd though, was that the movement came from the right side of the bed. Sherlock was aware that John made a habit of sleeping on the left side, choosing to sleep near the edge, laying on his right side to avoid a sore and stiff left shoulder in the morning. Not that Sherlock had previously watched John sleep. Or catalogued how he responded to human touch or sound when in the midst of one of his nightmares. (A crooning voice calmed him down, while touching was ultimately out of the question – Sherlock had narrowly avoided a broken nose on two occasions, as John had come to with great force, survival instinct kicking in.)

Sherlock squinted in the darkness, and sure enough, he could make out John’s still form on the left side of the bed, the only movement from him being the gentle rise and fall of his ribs with each breath. Sherlock’s eyes slid to the opposite side, where he again heard the sound of fluttering sheets; what he saw caused his own breath to catch. 

Even in the blackness of the room, and even half-concealed beneath the sheets, there was no mistaking the pair of wings that lie sprawled out, extending from John’s back and spanning so far over that they partially draped over the other side of the bed.

Sherlock took a step back, about to make a hasty retreat as it was evident now _why_ the door had been locked, when John’s eyes flew open. He jerked upward and glanced around for a moment, disoriented from his sudden wakening. And then his eyes found Sherlock. If looks could kill, Sherlock thought, he was certain that not only would he have been dead in that precise instant, but that there would have been nothing but the dust left after a spontaneous combustion, rather than an actual corpse.

_”SHERLOCK!”_


	3. Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock felt the heat first, before his eyes could glimpse anything out of the ordinary. It was late February, yet the temperature in the flat had risen in a blink; if he closed his eyes, he could easily believe that it was late spring outside, rather than a cold and clamoring winter. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant.
> 
> The wings materialised next, unfurling from John’s back and stretching outwards and up, giving him the appearance of a falcon about to take flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was just supposed to focus on John and Sherlock but then casefic happened because I got ideas. This was supposed to be ready and posted a couple of days ago but I got distracted with other work. Apologies!

_Two weeks earlier_

The quickly descending sun threw a soft light across the scene, giving an unsettling calm to what should have, by all rights, been a scene of discontent. Lestrade had phoned Sherlock, who had pointedly ignored the buzzing of his mobile on the countertop, which had led to Lestrade then phoning John. (As often happened – no one could deny that he had become Sherlock’s handler of sorts, in the last few months.) A body found at Hyde Park, and it was apparently a strange one.

“It’s a bit on the gruesome side,” the DI had warned them. Sherlock didn’t mind. Gruesome often translated to creative. He hoped this proved to be the case. It was certainly promising; the Park wasn’t Lestrade’s typical district given that there was a station in the centre of the park, but, in his own words, his sniffer dog was infamous among the whole of London’s police force.

Even had they not had the whirring police lights and commotion of Lestrade’s team to pinpoint them to the scene, it would have been easy to find due to the smell of charred flesh that permeated the air in every direction. Sherlock’s nose scrunched as the smell hit him in a grotesque wave, and he watched John cup a hand over his mouth and nose.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed.

Sherlock spotted the garish yellow tape that cordoned off the scene, and Lestrade’s troubled, gaunt face staring in their direction. The Detective Inspector looked like he hadn’t had much sleep in recent days. Sherlock’s eyes slanted down, but his hands were tucked firmly into his pockets. Still, Sherlock would almost bet the wedding band wasn’t there. He sniffed and then pulled his face into a taut smile as they approached.

“How’s the wife?”

“Don’t start in,” Lestrade groaned. 

“What have we got?” John cut in quickly, ducking under the tape, ignoring the strip Sherlock had lifted up for him. Sherlock had to suppress a roll of his eyes. 

“John Doe,” replied Lestrade, his voice gruff and worn. “Can’t do much other than check the recent missing persons reports for anything that could match, then it’s dental records from there.”

Sherlock circled around the body in his vulture-like fashion. The corpse had been dumped at the Corner, propped rather neatly beneath the Wellington Arch. _Put on display_. He cocked his head and bent in close, stepped back, inched to the left, stepped in again. Everyone gave him clearance as he examined and mentally catalogued what bits he could, and everyone had their eyes glued to his every movement. 

Everyone except John, who appeared preoccupied with the Arch itself, standing back with his sight cast up toward the stone monument’s silhouette in the foreground of the orange sunset.

“John.” Sherlock’s baritone brought John’s attention back down, and the detective motioned him over. “What can you make of it?”

John inched closer, an unguarded look of revulsion on his face, one hand still cupping his mouth and nose. Sherlock scoffed, but chose not to say anything. He didn’t need to give John even more reasons to be cross with him right now. The doctor’s eyes roved up and down the corpse for a moment, then he crouched and skimmed the ground beneath it, careful not to touch anything with ungloved hands.

“I’d say male,” he concluded as he righted himself again. “Going by the build of the body and what I can make of the skull.”

“My thoughts as well.”

“He was carried here – set up here against the marble. He was burned somewhere else, though. There’s no evidence of an accelerant anywhere near him.”

“What sort of accelerant do you suppose was used?”

“I figure that’s more of your area. I know you’re going to tell me anyway.”

And so he did. Sherlock swooped in again, closely examining the wretched remains, and brought a latex-covered finger up to run against singed fabric, then gave a sudden inhale. “Kerosene,” he said decisively. “You can smell it all over him – beneath the barbecue overtones, of course. He was doused thoroughly. Doesn’t appear to have any injuries that were inflicted before the fire, except –“ And here Sherlock pointed at the wrist. “The odd twist here. Give it a check, I’d guarantee it’s snapped, likely from struggle with his attacker, or in an attempt to free himself from his ropes.”

“Ropes?”

“Yes, ropes. Keep up, he was bound. “Sherlock was moving again now, splaying his hands out above the corpse as he spoke. “Bound, burned… Likely he died from the shock before anything else. “ Sherlock’s eyes flickered to what was left of the face – it was easy to perceive what could have been a last, frozen howl of terror there, where the entirety of the skin had not yet been seared from the bone. “I think you can cross ‘mercy killing’ off the list.”

Lestrade stood with arms crossed over his chest. “That it?”

“Army.” 

Everyone’s heads snapped – including Shrelock’s – to look at John, whose voice had been nothing more than a murmur. Before anyone could ask the unspoken question, he raised a finger and pointed squarely at the victim’s chest. “Look under his shirt.”

Sherlock moved in again and gasped, a short, quiet intake of breath. He never thought he would see the day that John Watson actually observed something he hadn’t, but God be damned, today was the day. He could see it before he even moved the shirt folds – the faint glint of a chain, marred black by the fire that had consumed its wearer. Slowly, he peeled back the singed fabric from where it had melted into flesh.

James Redfield, read the name on the dog tags.

* * *

“No.” John’s voice was clipped, but he kept his eyes locked on his laptop, his fingers slowly but steadily working over the keyboard. Honestly, Sherlock didn’t know why the man wouldn’t just let him teach him how to type proper. It was almost infuriating to watch. 

“You really aren’t going to talk to me about it? You talk about everything.” Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the left. “Or should I just check your blog? ‘You wouldn’t believe what Sherlock discovered in my room…’ Though I suppose that almost makes it sound lewd.”

John’s head finally raised, his eyes alight with indignation.

“Alright, let’s fucking talk about it then. What made you think it was perfectly acceptable to _break into my bloody bedroom in the middle of the night?_ Do you know who does that? Stalkers and psychopaths, Sherlock. Which are you?”

Sherlock sniffed, feigning offense. “You wound me, John. You know I’m not a psychopath.”

“Let’s see how many criminal psychologists agree with that. They’d get a kick out of studying you, I bet.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a scowl for a moment before deflecting, “I’m sure they would be a great deal more interested in studying a man whose PTSD seemingly sprouts wings from his shoulders. Should I give Mycroft a call? I don’t know that there would be visiting hours allowed in such a place, but I’d come see you regardless, of course.”

John tensed. “You’re a fucking prick, do you know that?”

“So you tell me, yet you continue to cohabit with me despite the fact.” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Perhaps you’re a glutton for punishment? Or you don’t find me as unbearable as you want to claim.”

John glanced down and away from Sherlock, suddenly very interested in the floor and his dusty-brown boots, which fidgeted in a show of agitation. “You wouldn’t honestly tell Mycroft, I hope. I’m pretty sure he _would_ haul me off to some facility, pin me in a cage….” His voice trailed and Sherlock’s mind made the quick and obvious connection. No, it wasn’t hard to imagine – John had already been a test subject of the younger Holmes once, that unspoken incident at Baskerville. Sherlock had overseen everything with all intention of keeping John safe. He cared for his flatmate, which was not something Mycroft could boast, and the idea of what that meant for John in a switch-scenario made Sherlock’s blood turn cold and a possessive beast stir in his chest.

“No.” His voice softened and he hoped his tone had some semblance of reassurance. “I wouldn’t.”

The room filled with swelling silence then, both men watching one another intently, John’s hands flexing subconsciously over his laptop, Sherlock’s in that familiar pose of fingertips to fingertips that was the tell-all sign that something was working around in that peculiar brain. Sherlock lifted his chin, and John sighed.

“Didn’t you get enough of a look already?”

“In the dark? No.”

“You bloody wanker,” John cursed beneath his breath as he closed his computer and placed it gently down before rising from his chair. “If it will shut you up.”

Sherlock wasn’t going to make a promise he couldn’t keep, so therefore said nothing. If John noticed, he chose not to remark on it. He gave a resigned sigh and tossed his head back, keenly watching the ceiling and avoiding Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock felt the heat first, before his eyes could glimpse anything out of the ordinary. It was late February, yet the temperature in the flat had risen in a blink; if he closed his eyes, he could easily believe that it was late spring outside, rather than a cold and clamoring winter. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

The wings materialised next, unfurling from John’s back and stretching outwards and up, giving him the appearance of a falcon about to take flight. The wingspan from one primary tip to the other was far greater than Sherlock had been able to discern in the darkness of John’s room a few nights prior; his wings were easily more extensive than he was tall by about four metres. The primary feathers were apparently what Sherlock had been finding scattered throughout the flat, having the lightest coloring of an oatmeal shade; the secondaries were slightly darker and more golden; the covert feathers deepened to a golden brown that, Sherlock oddly thought, complimented John’s sandy hair rather nicely.

So intent had he been on examining the wings, he didn’t notice that John’s head had lolled forward again and the doctor’s eyes were now fixed on Sherlock himself. John cleared his throat once and his wings gave a twitch before pulling inward and tucking neatly around the shorter man. Sherlock dragged his eyes reluctantly from the object of his fascination and to John’s face.

“Can I-?”

The question lingered, though the detective moved off of his chair even as he spoke, making the quick stride to stand in front of John, his long fingers reaching out.

John instinctively stepped back, somehow seeming to draw into himself even further, and a look of panic briefly crossed his face. 

“I – I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Not at the moment.”

Sherlock let his hand fall and made a quick nod of his head. He didn’t want to make John even more uncomfortable, but he couldn’t ignore all of the questions and hypotheses already firing off in his brain.

No, Mycroft wouldn’t be made privy to this if he could help it, but he would be damned if he would give up the opportunity for an extensive study of one John H. Watson for himself. The corner of his mouth curled up into a grin, which was answered with a groaning “oh, God” from John, who no doubt could already guess that his life was about to become infinitely more taxing than it already was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or Brit-picked and I'm bound to miss things on my own so if you spot anything, do feel free to let me know.


End file.
